What dreams may come...

On Jan. 18, 2010, I had a dream...

...Not a dream like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had, even though it arrived in my mind the night of his holiday. My dream will not lead civil rights movements; it likely won't affect or impress many--if any. But it's managed to occupy my mind for these few days and is worth recording in my opinion [and those of a few encouraging others], so here I go:

Disclaimer: Several-days removal will likely affect memory of the entire cerebral film, so I'm excusing myself from the obligation of including every detail.

OK, for real now, here I go:

I'm in Palestine, and I'm alone--and apparently lost. I see shari3 il Khala, as if I'm gliding past and through it, but I never touch the gravel. Perhaps I'm in a car, looking out the window; perhaps I'm floating. Panning out, I now realize that I'm moving within the confines of a yellow VW Bug that looks a little different than those available at the car lots, but I know--in my dream's mind--that it is this car of this color in this place.

Next, I'm stopped at a "checkpoint" (??), which consists of a yield-area on a sideroad exiting Tysons Corner mall and leading to the on-ramp to 495 S. I've yielded to a man of small stature and small mind, who is holding a clipboard and mumbling something or other--nothing audible. Without instruction but by instinct, I offer him a paper-copy of my passport picture...or was it the copy of my mom's passport? Both were folded up and sitting in the console of my yellow VW. It doesn't matter--he accepted it and waved me off to continue. As soon as I start to climb the ramp, I'm transported elsewhere...

Elsewhere, in this dream, is the Armenian quarter of the Old City of Jerusalem (I know it because I recognize the shops and the cafe that I've escaped to for a cold drink or ice cream during a hot day of shopping--the same cafe at which, in 2007, the Chobar lady shared her time and stories over 3aseer). In that corner of the quarter--in my dream--is a small amphitheater-like space that is half inside and half out. It is made of wood (must be olive) and rock; fashionable greenery peeking out of select corners and crevices; chairs, bleachers, and a stage; a crowd of internationals and a handful of young Palestinians gather to watch a show. It's all so "Def Poetry Jam"-esque [aside: the vision is so vivid, reminiscent of the colors and auras depicted in "What Dreams May Come"; I want to touch everything; my eyes gulp the scene in as if their existence depends on it; it's awesome and I'm amazed and aware of this even in the dream.]

I see him in profile, prancing across the bleachers from outside to in. Xxx? He comes at me and looks at me as if I had been his girlfriend for all these years--but I knew nothing of it. He tells me that he's arranged for me to discuss my life and share stories with the audience that has gathered here--but I'm unprepared. He escorts me to the top bleachers, in the back, where we can talk and be alone, except there is a guy sitting right to his right. I look at the stage; no one is performing yet. I lean over and whisper something in his left ear and touch his rook with the tip of my tongue...

This propels him into an action that I'm going to spare the readers and leave in the nooks of my dream's memories. I will write that my eyes widened out of shock, flattery, disgust, and the comedy of the situation. The guy right on his right seems clueless or unaffected somehow, which causes me even more amazement.

Suddenly, I'm on deck--either preparing to go on stage or just standing there to view the crowd from this perspective. And then, I see Jermaine Dupri holding Janet Jackson's right hand with his left, and  leading her to the backstage area. She is laughing about something; and from behind me a voice whispers something about how stylishly the couple is dressed.

IL NIHAYA

people.live

+ beitilu.. ramallah.. deiryassin.. deirdibwan.. alquds. .altour.. beitin. .elbireh. .qalqilya.. ghaza.. khanyounis.. 3akka.. 7aifa.. yafa.. ellod.. nablus.. silwad.. beit3or.. elkhalil.. elnasrah.. beitla7m.. aljaniyah.. eldehesha.. eljalazon.. 3izariyah.. abughosh.. tabareeyah.. beit7anina.. sheikhjarra7.. elramle.. qalandiya.. jebelelzeitoon.. beisan.. tulkaram.. jenin.. safad.. 3aynilzeitoon.. abushoushah.. abuzureiq.. 3inghazal.. khirbatelburj.. eshsheikhbureik.. eltireh.. nasreldin.. elubeidiya.. elmawasi.. elwuheib.. ghazawiya.. elhamra.. beityousef.. kawkabelhawa.. elmurassas.. elsafa.. elsamiriya.. ummajra.. elbarid.. 3inelmansi.. elfandaqumiya.. elmazar.. khirbatelmutilla.. elrama.. ummelfa7m.. birkatramadan.. deirelghusun.. khirbatabuharfil.. elras.. ummkhalid.. beitdajan.. deirsharaf.. elfunduq.. rafat.. sabastiya.. elsawiya.. zeita.. abukishk.. elmirr.. abuelfadi.. elbarriya.. deirabusalama.. el7aditha.. elkheima.. khirbatmusmar.. elkunaiyisa.. ellubban.. ni3lin.. beitrima.. beituniya.. beirzeit.. 3in3irik.. 3inyabrud.. rammoun.. raskarkar.. turmusaya.. abudis.. beitfajar.. deirelhawa.. 3inkaram.. jarash.. elmali7a.. silwan.. elwalaja.. benisuheila.. deirelbala7.. majdal.. raf7.. tellelturmus.. beitjibrin.. deirnakhas.. khirbatummburj.. elqubeiba.. erri7a.. umrashrash.. abusitteh.. abumiddain.. raasalnaqurah.. netanya.. raasel3in.. beitsafafa.. miska.. beitjibrin.. deirmu7isin.. zarnuqa.. birelsaba.. 3ashqelan.. elsheikh3awad.. birketelustaz.. elqashle.. qibya.. kafrqasem.. ummalfaraj.. alnahr.. deirtarif.. deirballut.. lifta.. deirelghusun.. beitliqya.. beit7anun.. 3alma.. 3kbarah.. alraasala7mar.. sa3sa3.. al3olmaniya.. alzoqalta7taniya.. albirwah.. deiralqasi.. koweekat.. altl.. alzeeb.. 3inghazal.. ijzim.. almazar.. yajur.. sireen.. alfatoor.. aljalama.. qaqoon.. abualfadl.. 3aqr.. deirtareef.. zarnooqa.. beitdaras.. bareer.. isdood.. juseer.. simsim.. 3arabsaqreer.. umm7amdan.. tellelza3tar.. ummelkhair.. beitsa7our.. aldhahireeyah.. halhoola.. jabaleeya.. qabateeya.. tubaas.. yatta.. salfeet.. beitjala.. beitlaheeya.. +

Hatim's Response to William

My passion for Palestine is apparent--and inherent: I get much of it from my dad.

With his permission, I've posted one-fifth of an e-mail exchange between himself, and Prof. William Cook, an English professor at the University of LaVerne, who frequently writes about Palestine (a sample: http://kanan48.wordpress.com/2009/09/27/a-world-without-law-by-professor-william-a-cook/).

[By-the-by, the two have seemingly become e-mail buddies now, as is exemplified through Cook's opening and closing remarks in the response he sent to the note posted below: "Dear Hatim, I trust you are not discombobulated by my use of your given name; I feel we have a friend's dialogue going here, one that I hope will keep going for some time...Hatim, I must go, soup's on. Peace, Bill."]

While you do not have the full exchange between these two writers, in reading my dad's e-mail, you will feel the humanity and the life that thumps in the Palestinian heartbeat, and that is why we are sharing it with you. 3eesh!

From: Hatim Khatib
Sent: Saturday, December 26, 2009 12:28 PM
To: William Cook
Subject: RE: Palestinian Sentiments Not In Vogue

Dear Professor Cook,

I’ll let you in on a secret. In moments of reverie, Palestine recedes as a thing of intellect, of rationality, of strategy and power plays. In those moments, she rises as attachment, oneness, interiority, but mainly as pure passion. Intellectually, Palestine is easily explainable, especially for those with no delusions, prejudices, or allegiances. It’s no exaggeration that most Palestinians, just on merit, are willing and reasonably qualified interlocutors. At any café in any Palestinian street, the average habitué would be all too eager to engage in variegated discourse on Palestine with any other, without regard for the other’s academic credentials or station. The outcome of such engagements is never a sure thing. Palestinians’ articulation of Palestine is not prescribed only by or for academics, notables, clerics, or politicians; it emanates from the narrative that is within our chests and hearts. We are all laureates for Palestine.

The expression of Palestine, however, is not restricted to Palestinians. I have quite often encountered people from all over the world whose facility with Palestine was incredibly and pleasingly surprising. Regrettably, once those encounters were over, they’d go on and I’d be left with an unchanged, unpromised, undelivered Palestine.

Nonetheless, hope for more lingers. But even those encounters become worn with etiquette, monotony, and roll-play; with expectations and accommodations; with compromises and concessions. We Palestinians, in addition to sustaining the wound of dispossession and displacement and negation, have to bear, however willing and eager, the burdens and gravity of being interlocutors and articulators. We are, at others’ whims, on display as individuals and nation, being required to perform and explain—expectedly, conformably, and correctly.

Now I must speak from inside Palestine, as if it were the only place in the universe. For me, in my youth, and now in my memory, it was. Palestine was waking up on father’s command to early school mornings bursting with light and fresh air just arriving from surrounding hills and valleys to replace the exhalations of the previous night’s repose; predictably sunny blue skies and a few hops to school for reuniting with buddies; hurried wrestling matches to even scores after a breakfast of eggs and thyme and olive oil, with warm milk or tea, served by adoring mothers. Palestine lives matchless in its beauty and what it offered us, its sons and daughters. I remember well its long, sunny days, its tantalizingly overhead stars, its sensuous moonlit nights, and hypnotizingly silhouetted night stillness enveloping all its charges (families in stone houses, animals in bins, orchards of apricot, fig, and plum, and mountains of olive trees).

Palestine, within minutes, was the vaulted streets of Old Jerusalem, where I was born, and their smells of every Palestinian palate (desserts, artfully raised pyramids of spices, meats, fish), of linens and silks, of second-hand shoes, the warning shouts and furtive stares of Herculean street porters, shoulder-to-shoulder congestions of shoppers at once salivating for what’s on display and basking in the holiness that surrounds them. It is the most vivid hustle and bustle vociferated in myriad Palestinian idioms, from the delicately arrogant city dialect to the Falahi drawls (so distinct according to village) to the occasional Bedouin’s. Yes, and within minutes, Palestine displays its other side of beauty: bald hills, desolation, and ravines in one instant, and, in another, lush verdant plains and hillsides, marauding bleating sheep and goats, and fluting shepherds whose notes serenade the true story of the land and its people.

Palestine was annual school trips to Palestinian cities (Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Hebron, Nablus, Tulkarim, Jenin, Jaresh, once to Amman), always ending at the Dead Sea for a dip that would literally crystallize underwear—we never bothered with, or had, swim suits—in which we would make the trip back home, quite uncomfortably. Not only that, but we would go to bed in them that night. No mother, never mind how loving, would get up at 2:00 in the morning to relieve the suffering of children, who had the time of their lives that day, from the Dead Sea’s last laugh.

For me, Palestine, save for occasional growing pains, was all beauty and pure youthful pleasure. I’ll never forget Ramallah, where I went to school, or our walks to school from the bus stop and the sinuous detours we took to ensure at least distant sightings of girls going to theirs; or the long lines at Abdo’s falafel stand for a sandwich to wolf down while at the cinemas for a double-feature show, typically an Egyptian and an American western, and the utter chaos when a rare Technicolor Indian movie would be showing. Oh, Ramallah’s afternoons, after school in any season (slow paced spring’s serenity, fall’s tumult of windblown hair and skirts and discarded newspapers) and of old buses humming, exerting, brakes squeaking, readying to head to the steeper rural climbs of Palestine, loaded and noisy with people and fluttering fowl.

Palestine is the symbols we chanted and picked from elementary school readings: usurped Palestine; Yaffa (“The Bride of the Sea”); the battle of Qastal; the martyrship of Abd Al-Qader Al-Husseini; Deir Yassin; and Nasser’s speeches our parents listened to with abatjours shut, especially when relations between King Hussein and Nasser soured. It was the pain and longing and sheer curiosity we felt in our guts as children when we saw from Beitilu (our ancestral village to which we returned during school holidays) the bobbing, dancing lights, and glitter of what must have been Yaffa in what we methodically called Filistine al Muhtella (“Occupied Palestine”). This, very briefly, was the Palestine of youth.

Today the mere mention or sight or debate or discussion of it, whether on television or radio, or in a classroom or a lecture hall, or in a garage or barbershop, causes stirring, pulsating, collective yawning from difficult breathing, and writhing pain that is aggravated by our attempts at hiding it. I shout halfheartedly to my daughter from my bedroom if there is a program on Gaza or the Wall or a land grab for a new settlement, knowing the further frustrations and despair that’ll bring to us, especially to her. We know it’s just easier to avoid such things, but it’s nearly impossible. We are helplessly drawn to anything Palestine. The betrayal I feel as a father when I steel at her face (red hair, freckles and all) while watching those programs in which people from foreign places, with countries and homes and families untouched by what’s being shown, talk to Palestinians, and at them, in disparate tenors and for disparate aims, and know what she is going through. I am at once watching the pain on television and the one invading the insides of my goddess-daughter. I monitor her every move; her sighs and frequency of her yawns (indications of stress), scalping, look-aways, her hand movement, and, finally, her toes, her absolutely serene, civil, very human toes.

I’ve always watched my family’s toes and psychoanalyzed each member accordingly. My brother’s, even as a child, have always prostrated perfectly horizontally flush with his feet and, occasionally, rather peaceably, with live-and-let-live attitude, dipped downward. That, in my mind, always explained his even temper, emotional stamina, and patience. My daughter shares those attributes with my brother, but mainly with her mother, who, from her beginnings, has been a personification of virtue and the pride of our entire family. Conversely, mine, like my younger brother’s and sister’s, have always been restive and raised, sheer insight into my pugnacity and impatience. My family’s toes, hands, hair, eyes, torsos, teeth, smiles, yawns, winks, and twitches are what I see as representations of my family’s utter irreplaceability and the virtual impossibility of life without them. Horrifically, however, to a 22-year-old Israeli punk at any crossing or roadblock in Palestine, my family is so dispensable and irrelevant.

When I saw on television the destruction of Palestinians in Sabra and Shatilla, in Jenin and Tulkarim, and, most recently, in Gaza, I saw Palestine strewn in body parts (skulls and teeth and torsos and hair), in unfinished smiles and conversations, in halted tears, in aborted fears, unconsummated weddings and lives, courtesy of Israeli missiles signed by Israeli children. I see Palestine scattered in toes.

This is when Palestine ceases to be an intellectual exchange or a strategy, or just a rehearsed demonstration and speech, and becomes raw passion. When you write about Palestine, you are one of the very few who do so with conviction, truth, and passion—exceptional passion. When I wrote to you, it was in appreciation of your passion for Palestine.

Respectfully,
Hatim

A personal Pandora

It shouldn't be surprising that Pandora is familiar to me--it's easy to see how Palestine-esque it is...at least for me.

The vision I had today, a day after seeing the film, "AVATAR," was of me, kazdar-ing along Shari3 il Khala, making my way to the phonetical Il Entar [formerly the InterContinental, now Seven Arches], from where the holy world glistens in gold divinity and stretches its wary and stressed appendages before me and my companions--ready to invite us in, despite the turmoil that tugs and tears at it. It carries on in spite of it all, like any Palestinian woman, mother, or combination of the two--like Mo'at.

The vision appeared in my eyes' theater at the beck-and-call of Fadel Shaker, who was singing about the impossibility of forgetting his beloved. There is no particular connection between this song and the memories of those nightly walks--but the inspiration happened nonetheless. And it shouldn't be surprising.

A second vision places me mid-trek at the site of my make-shift playground/obstacle course: il daraj jamb il Mormon. I hear my heavy breath as I stare at the line of intruders, interrupting my run and my peace--tourists, coming to see "Israel" but leaving their footprints on Palestinian earth. "This, this is our land!!," I silently yelled at them. I hissed at them too...I'm sure I did, just like Neytiri. But they never saw my facial features widen or snarl. If they saw anything of me, it was my impatient, furrowed brow waiting for them to leave--or my red T-shirt, covering my billaphone and iPhone, and resting on the rock farther down the stairs. There were remnants of me all over those stairs and that dust and those stones—even the butterflies came to recognize me; the stains of the invaders would be swept away under a few more of my running steps—and my marks would be pressed into the land again and again, today and tomorrow, next week and next year.

But even I am not there always; even I am a visitor who lays claim for as long as she can but can't for very long. Myself in my memories is my AVATAR in my PANDORA...

...Until I make that final transition, and return my dust and energy to the place from where they were borrowed. That time will come, and I hope it will be surprising.

You don't know what it's like to be me looking at us.

I see us.

From the backs of the rounds that control my vision, an image reflects off the optical mirrors that Allah placed inside my sockets: It's you and me; it's an illusion of an allusion.

We're in a fantastic place. We're alone--save a boulder that supports my back and the hawa that holds you up with the palm of her hand.

This is our place--this is the only place where our lost love is able to be found. No demons or thieves can steal it from here. You are mine again, and mine alone. I am yours here, but I've always been everywhere else too.

It's you and me and the boulder and hawa. And it's hawa--amorous and organic and musical.

I feel every note of it in the pads of each of your fingertips as they caress my cheek--it soothes and burns all at once. You radiate your freedom to me here, a freedom that you have denied and kept from me for these past years. My face flushes and new freckles form from your glow.

You smile. My soul gasps for breath, grabbing that life.

I knew it! I've known it! I've always felt that it was still there, in the depths of your soul; scorched into the crevices of this boulder. This faith-rock holds me up to face you, and does not allow me to forget and let go.

My heart has seen your face like this every third minute of every day that I have lived in a state of awareness and wariness of love.

And it is wretched how much I love. It's a pain that I wish I didn't earn from you.

But in this illusion of an allusion--I see that you've earned it from me too.

I don't want us to leave this fantastic place. So I tear, and, thus, tear the illusion of you and me and the boulder and the hawa into my pupils. And I relinquish the rest of me to a life with closed lids so this can never be interrupted by another sight.

I see us--and I will never see anything else again.

A muse maktoob

I believe that everything has its place and its time and its significance.

An hour ago, that belief was exemplified.

I had, for several days, let the MP3 icon for Muse simmer on my desktop--untouched for no particular reason except maybe a lack of desire to listen.

An hour ago, I stared at that icon and had a completely unrelated thought: I thought about how I hadn't written anything in more than 30 days--and I thought about how I had changed during that time--I was not the same woman who had written that last post in early November.

...During those 30 days, I had pulled the knife out of my side--the one that, by my own hand, had been piercing and twisting and tearing me for several years now--wiped off the blood, spit-shined it clean, took a look at my reflection in its blade, winked, and tossed it to the curb...

But it seemed my new-found [dare I say it?!] happiness had also ripped out my inspiration.

That realization behind me, I finally double-clicked the Muse icon hoping for a new kind of inspiration. My subsequent realization: the name of Muse's song is "Feeling Good."

Muse to Reem: "Freedom is mine...it's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life...for me."

"Of course," I snickered, looking down at my freshly-polished shimmering blood-red nail, "there was no other day for this ear penetration to take place. Today was when it was supposed to happen all along."

Kol shee ilo waqto; kol shee maktoob.

:)feeling.good

Ramblings void of sleep

Sleep is impossible right now; it has been so for the past several hours actually.

And just before I decided to start writing this, my internal voices had been debating about whether I had the energy to get up, wrap my mind around some thoughts, and jot them down on this virtual notepad.

As I type, I wonder if the "do" argument really won, or if I'm going to conk and zonk out soon, perhaps mid-sentence...

...but I continue for now.

While my mind's minds were having a back-and-forth about the future, the tips of the fingernails on my left hand were gently skimming my shin, attempting to soothe me to sleep. But, my eyes were wandering around the room--dark, except for a whitish-blue glow emanating from the virtual notepad vessel, my computer--and refusing to allow the rest of me to be lulled into the fourth and R.E.M phases.

And I saw and heard my thoughts bouncing in front of me, like the ball that guides a karaoke singer through her song. And they were set against a chorus of "let it be, let it be, let it be...forget about him...don't you shed a tear...memories will fade away," sung by Shooma and written by Ihsen Da Sole. It was inevitable that the song would become etched in my head, listening to it as many times as I have since receiving it.

As it repeated in my background, my brain churned away in the foreground. I stared at the hangings on my wall: the runner that Ropina had given me during my 2007 trip to Palestine, the bullet-ridden targets signed by my shooting-range crew, the prayers rugs that intersect and complement each other--I paused here, and thought about how I hadn't prayed maghrib or 3isha, and debated whether I should use my awake-ness to do so now, realizing all along that I wasn't going to: my love and appreciation for Allah has never wavered but my focus during the movements of salah sometimes does, and I knew I would not be able to focus now. But I continued to think about it, because of guilt.

I looked at the clock--only six minutes had passed since the last check, and I thought, "Akkh, ya Allah, four more hours to go."

Now, I was hearing the "thought I lost you, in the darkness, of a lonely night...never let you go" of Interstate's "I found you," and I thought, "I wish he could act like a Libra sometimes," and I debated whether I should use my awake-ness to log onto Facebook to see who else was not sleeping and whether they had notified me of something during the hours that I had been logged off.

"No, I don't want to be found right now."

With the base of my skull cushioned by my pillow, I tilted my head toward the back--my eyes reaching for the whitish-blue radiation of my computer screen, "That is why I had also not been logged into my instant messaging programs--I want to be lost and inaccessible."

I thought about how I was as dazed and confused as the players in that movie, which I had seen before the stroke of 12 and before the TV turned off...Matthew McConaughey's character "loved red heads." But that was no comfort: he was a loser in that film. I was still bored and tired and annoyed--only four more minutes had passed.

"Uff..."

I stretched both of my legs out, locked them together, and lifted them to a pike, attempting to straighten them as much as possible; I felt the resistance of my hamstrings: "how unsymmetrical?!" So, I pinned back certain parts, trying to refashion them into something more "normal." I decided to just be thankful that they function. They did get me through the kickboxing class, where he called me "beautiful," and flirted that I would be able to do some damage in the ring. I saw the gym: rows of heavy bags, waiting for punches of stress and kicks of frustration to pound them into senselessness. The bags were symmetrical as were their rows, except when interrupted by a weighted swing.

I found my eyes had shut, but my brain was still working, and I still was not sleeping--"why am I lying to myself?" I opened them.

And, I stood up and stared at my bed, then the clock, then the computer (had a camera been watching me, I may have resembled the chick in "Paranormal Activity"). With pangs of hunger in my stomach and a swelling of thoughts in my head, I walked toward the whitish-blue light.

I sat on my stability ball, squeezing it with my bent legs to force stability and levity, and started to type the thoughts that had been streaming inside during the past several hours of unstable sleep.

And here I've been: "Ya Allah, two more hours to go."

I'm going to sleep.